Heartbeats
by SilverStarsAndMoons
Summary: Emma and Will go out on their first date, but it doesn't go as well as they both hope when Emma gets sick and the events of the night don't go as planned. Sweet, slightly angsty one-shot.


Emma Pillsbury has a lucky pink skirt – she only breaks it out on special occasions. Like when she visits her family, or goes out to her favourite restaurant (favourite because they openly clean in front of her – and offer her extra Handiwipes when she needs them). It's candy-pink with embroidered white flowers, and she feels beautiful in it. Though Emma has no idea of how gorgeous she really is, she glows a little more when she's wearing her favourite outfit.

Today, she smoothes it down, adjusts her hair (straightened, for a change – it took her awhile to learn how to use the straightener, but she thinks she has it down pat now) and double-checks her makeup in her desk mirror.

Will Schuester asked her out on a date two days ago.

"Em . . . as much as I disapprove of teachers getting together at school, and as much as we both know how disastrous that can be, I really want to do more with you than scrubbing water fountains with tooth brushes."

She had blushed, her face turning pink, and gave him one of her shy smiles. "Well, I suppose we could have lunch outside of work for a change."

"No, I don't want to have to rush back after an hour. Hey, why don't I take you out to my favourite restaurant?" His face, animated, his eyes sparkling – Emma's smile just grew wider.

"Gosh, Will, I would like that." Her accent sounded through clearly, and he grinned as she blushed. "Sorry."

"Em," he said, and leant forward across her desk, taking one of her cold little hands into his big warm one, "I love your accent. I wish you wouldn't hide it."

"That's easy for you to say when everyone can understand you," she blurted, but then sighed. "I got made fun of a lot when I left Virginia."

"Why?"

"A bunch of different reasons, but, um, mostly because most people thought my grammar was funny, you know, that sort of thing. I said a lot of 'cain't' and 'foodt'," she admits, and blushes again.

In response, he simply squeezed her hand. "I think that's sweet. And I can't wait to hear more about you and your life."

She had frozen then. "Oh, I don't know about that. Maybe we'll just chat," she'd said, quietly withdrawing her hand.

"Why?" He looked confused, but then shrugged it off when she refused to respond, but simply looked at him squarely with her big eyes.

"Listen, do you like Mexican food?"

She'd fiddled with a pencil. "It depends on the restaurant – but I mean, sure, I like it. If it has no meat, and um, no sour cream or cheese or anything."

"Well, Jose's makes great food," he'd replied, and was surprised to see a smile spread across her face.

"Jose's is a great place, Will."

Surprised by her positive reaction, he'd smiled back, and said, "Seven on Tuesday okay?"

In response, her face had lit up, like he'd given her what she'd always wanted.

"Perfect."

//~//

Looking back, she couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but she's pretty sure it started when Rachel Berry cried in her office and then sneezed all over her desk.

Emma's gotten better at not freaking out in front of the students, but it must be said that she shot back in alarm from her chair and immediately broke out her Lysol spray. Rachel had sniffled, watched Emma impassively, and then asked,

"Ms. Pillsbury . . . do you ever sneeze?"

To be honest, she hasn't been sick in at least two years. She's so careful with the sanitizing that germs just don't have a chance. And that works for Emma; she can't handle being ill. She ends up in bed, with a thermometer sticking out of her mouth round the clock, and hand sanitizer lining her bedside table along with every remedy imaginable for that particular malady.

Emma has trouble seeing the other side of an illness; while she's in it, all she can think about is how much she wants to get out of it. And when most people forget immediately how bad they felt after they get better, Emma remembers for weeks on end how awful she felt and how panicky she was.

So she shakes her head at Rachel, slowly. "No . . . not really."

She blushes a bit at Rachel's raised eyebrows, and shakes her head again. "No, I don't have any allergies, and I'm lucky not to get sick often."

Emma stands, signalling the end of the interview. "Now, I know that today's not been a good day, Rachel, um, we don't always get the parts that we want in life. But you've got to understand that working, you know, WELL with others is an important skill, and that people will appreciate your co-operation, even if you feel like you would do the job best."

She smiles encouragingly at Rachel, but receives a blank look in return.

"You're off today, Ms. P." Rachel shrugs her shoulders, picks up her bag. "You're normally better at advice than that."

Emma suddenly just feels tired. "Rachel, we've been chatting once a week for about your entire sophomore year. Sometimes, I just don't know how to repackage information that I've already given you, you know?" She runs a hand through her red hair and just wants to sit down.

"I'll guess we'll try again next week," says Rachel, her chin setting stubbornly. She sweeps up and out of Emma's office, and Emma sighs, running her hand through her hair again.

Just then, Will pops his head in, and gives her one of his bright smiles. "Hey, Em. You okay?"

She straightens, smoothing down her white cardigan, and gives him a shy smile back. "Hi, Will. Um, yeah, I'm okay. Had my weekly appointment with Rachel Berry."

"Well, that explains the look on your face." He pulls out the chair across from her desk and sits down, crossing his legs. "She's so frustrating. I know she's just high-strung and anxious, but I'm telling you, it gets to be enough. I swear, I have no idea how she goes through life so keyed up constantly."

"Well, she doesn't really," says Emma without thinking. "She needs a lot of, um, reassurance, I guess? I basically tell her the same thing every week. She just needs to hear it a lot. She's really insecure, and it makes me kind of . . . sad."

Will looks up at her suddenly, and she blinks, turns away. "Anyway, were we going to go out tonight?"

His face relaxes into a smile. "We were, yes. I made reservations at Jose's."

Emma grins at him, a smile of pure joy. "Oh, I love that place!"

"You said that. I gather it's also the only one you'll actually eat at."

Her face twists a little in embarrassment, and he puts a hand on her arm, making sure that his palm rests on the clothed part of her arm. She covers his hand with her own, looking at where their fingers meet, where the air pockets create space under their intertwined fingers, and when she looks up again, he's gazing at her with an expression she just can't read.

"Fifteen seconds, this time."

"And I did it by myself," she whispers back. He leans forward, and at that point, she almost thinks he's going to kiss her, until the door to her office bangs open, and Rachel Berry is framed in the doorway once again.

"Ms. Pillsbury, I really was not satisfied with today's meeting."

Emma leans back, tries not to roll her eyes. "Well, Rachel, I think we've discussed where we want to go with discussions in the future, and we'll talk about this more next week, okay?"

Rachel pouts, and Will hastily steps in. "Ms. Pillsbury and I are having a meeting right now, Rachel."

"And I'm sorry to break it up, but I really felt that my feelings need to be known."

"Okay, well, I'll take that under advisement," says Emma, sounding more firm than Will's ever heard her. She stands again. "Look, Rachel, I've got to go. It's past five-thirty and school, and Glee, ended an hour ago. Why don't you go home and relax?"

Again, the pout, the big dark eyes meltingly sad. "Okay. I don't want to be annoying, you know. I just have a lot I need to express."

"Glee's all the better for it, Rach," drawls Will, and Emma shoots him a look. She clears her throat.

"No, I know, Rachel, you're not annoying, this is my job. But, um, school is now over, so it's time to part our ways for today."

Rachel manages a small smile, and Emma pats her shoulder as she holds the door open for Will and Rachel to file out. Securely locking it behind her, she watches Rachel walking down the hall, and then turns to him.

"Okay, so, shall we?" Smiling, her grin beautiful, joyful, full of light and totally transforming her face, she hesitates a second before tentatively slipping her hand into Will's.

Again, there's the sense of slight urgency, the "this is wrong" feeling spreading all over her. But after another second, he squeezes her hand, and they take the first step. She lasts until the end of the hallway before letting go.

It takes every ounce of her will power (Will power – the power of Will does have a humongous effect on her) not to pull out her sanitizer, but he discreetly squats down to tie his shoe and she surreptitiously manages to sanitize her hands in the brief interlude it takes for him to finish double-knotting his laces. When he straightens, he gives her a soft smile, and she once again reflects on the dream-like quality of this entire situation. She steps back to give him room to stand up, but he places a hand on her shoulder.

"It's okay," he says softly, and she knows he means it's okay that she can't handle it sometimes, or can only handle a bit at a time. So, she doesn't say anything back, but she takes his hand a little more assertively this time.

They have to wait a few moments while she cleans the handle of his car and he dusts off the seat so that she can sit down. The car won't start for the first few minutes and the blush spreads on his cheeks as he turns to her.

"Em, I'm sorry. This car's temperamental."

She smiles at him. "It's okay, Will. We're not in a big hurry, are we?"

"I've made the reservations for seven, so, not really, but . . ." He looks a bit ashamed. "Terri always told me I should give up this car, and I mean, I guess I see her point, now." He puts a hand out to touch Emma's knee, but stops himself.

She can feel the heat of his hand an inch or so above his knee, and for the third time that night, she takes a deep breath and takes his hand in her own. He gasps a little at her cold palms.

"You're freezing, Em. I'm sorry; it's too cold for you to be sitting here." He looks down at her nyloned legs under her pink skirt, and looks annoyed. "It's almost November."

She suddenly laughs. "Will, I wear nylons in January. It's okay, really."

After she meets his eyes, he smiles back, and the car roars to life. "Well, I guess it doesn't matter. We'll have heat in a few minutes."

She looks pleased, and for the first time, feels her stomach jump a little in anticipation at finally getting to be with her crush outside of school. Emma feels like one of the high school girls she counsels on a daily basis, and blushes a little at her departure from her normal personality.

"Great. Though, I suppose we really could have walked. It's just down the street."

Will stares awkwardly out the front window as he makes the left turn onto Goodacre Street, and then says, "Yeah, but I don't want to walk back."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, before she puts a hand on his arm. "Will, gosh. It's okay, you don't have to go to all this trouble for me. I just . . . am looking forward to, um, to being with you. It's just nice to do this outside of school, you know?"

Immediately, he relaxes. "Yeah. Yes, it is."

She leans back in the seat, appreciating the soft comfort of the bucket's fabric, and putting out of her mind the question of when Will last vacuumed.

The night flashes by outside, and Emma's eyes glow with the excitement of it.

//~//

They arrive a little early for their reservation, and Will argues with the college student at the hostess podium. "Look, I know we said seven, because school activities occasionally run late, but it's only six-fifteen. It can't be that big of a problem to seat us early, could it?"

Emma meets the eyes of the hostess behind the podium and smiles encouragingly. "It would be nice," she pipes up, her voice hopeful.

The student rolls her eyes. "Look, I gotta do what my boss tells me. Reservations can only be claimed up to a half hour before and after the specified time. Sir, you'll have to wait fifteen minutes."

Will runs an exasperated hand through his hair. "Listen, I –"

She flips boredly through her book. "I can seat you, sure, but it won't be in the table by the window. You booked that for seven, that's when you'll get it."

Emma puts a reassuring hand on Will's shoulder. "Will, it's okay. Let's just sit down wherever."

Emma is starting to feel a little strange. She isn't sure if it's the lighting in the restaurant, but her eyes seem to be playing tricks on her, and she's starting to feel a headache coming on. She just wants to sit down.

At her touch, Will turns to her. "Okay. I just really like that table, is all."

"Well," she says, always wanting to be accommodating, "I really don't care. We can wait." She sighs a little, rubbing a hand across her forehead, and Will's expression turns from annoyed to concerned.

"You've got to be hungry. I mean, we ate at eleven-thirty." He turns to the hostess. "Just give us whatever table you've got."

Again, they have to wait until Emma cleans all of the silverware with her wipes before picking up the menus, and she slips her gloves on to do that. Catching Will watching her, she suddenly blushes.

"Um, what would you recommend here?" She's been to Jose's before, but she wants to hear Will's opinion. It's funny – she wouldn't have cared as much about anyone's voice and face and mannerisms before she met Will. And she still feels a little stupid for caring as much about it now, but there's something about the way his chin dimple deepens when he forms certain words, and the way his eyes sparkle at her. She feels like she could listen to him all day.

He grins, much more relaxed. "I like the guacamole. And they make their own nachos here. None of that Tostitos stuff."

They end up ordering, Emma a vegetarian burrito and a side of guacamole and chips (because they were recommended so highly, and she's eaten both before), Will a full taco salad complete with all the fixings. But when the food comes out, Emma stares down at her plate in dismay.

Her burrito is messily slapped together, the filling falling out onto the plate and mixing with the guacamole. The chips are spread haphazardly across the white china surface, almost falling onto the table. She licks her lips, feeling her gag reflex react in the back of her throat, and looks up to see Will staring at her.

"Em?" His voice is soft. "What's wrong with it?"

She clears her throat, takes a sip of water. "Nothing . . . Will, no, it's okay."

His eyes don't leave hers. "Seriously, Emma. What's wrong?"

She pokes at a chip with her fork and bites her lip. "It's a little . . . messy, but it's okay. I mean, I'm hungry, it's good food. I'm okay." Her voice rises a little at the end, as if in a question, and he nods reassuringly across the table.

"We can ask them to redo the plate. If it wasn't touching, maybe?"

Emma suddenly feels tears rush to her eyes. This is stupid, and she feels stupid, and not only that, she knows if she tries to eat any of this food, she's going to end up being sick. Even still, she summons all of her rational thought together and grips her fork more tightly.

"No. This is fine." She picks up her glass of wine, looks at Will squarely, and takes a large swallow. "This dinner is absolutely fine."

He smiles tentatively back at her, and takes a bite of his own dinner.

She steels herself, loads a bit of the guacamole onto a chip, and then takes a bite, chews quickly, and swallows. Her throat reacts almost immediately, but she swallows down the food that's threatening to come back up and takes a drink of wine, her eyes watering a little. The second bite goes down a little more easily, but when she takes a break to look up at Will, the look on his face is half pitying, half disbelieving.

"Em, if you can't eat it –"

"Will, I'm fine." Her accent is strong when she's annoyed, and he shuts up, but doesn't take his eyes off her. She manages about half another bite before he puts down his fork.

"Listen, Emma. This is not . . . I'm not comfortable with watching you try to choke down something you can't eat."

Emma puts down her fork and looks down at her plate. "Will, I'm fine."

"No, you're not fine." He snakes a hand across the table, rests it on top of her arm. "Why don't we order you something else? Or have them fix the food you're eating?"

She opens her mouth to reply, to actually get pissed off at him, but anything she's about to say gets stopped when she sneezes.

Will looks surprised. "Bless you."

She looks at him with her mouth completely open, and her hands in the air. "Oh, my God."

"Emma?"

"I'm so sorry, I didn't even cover my mouth, Oh God . . ." She looks down at her plate and suddenly stands. "Will, I –"

"It's okay." He looks disappointed, but signals the waiter for the check while she frantically sanitizes her hands. "You don't look like you're really feeling all that well, anyway."

It's true – Emma's feeling feverish, her head aches, and she isn't very hungry, after all. As soon as he pays the bill, she sneezes again.

"I'm so sorry."

"Emma, it's a sneeze. It's not that big a deal." His voice is peevish, now, and as they walk out to the car, he makes no move to touch her or even open her car door for her.

They sit in silence on the way home, but as they pull up in front of her apartment, she begins to cry. Horrified, she grabs Kleenex out of her purse and dabs at her eyes, praying Will hasn't noticed, but his warm hand on her knee quickly erases that small hope.

"Emma . . . don't cry."

"I'm not crying," she insists, but her Virginian accent at this point is so audible through her tears that he starts to laugh a little.

"You're a bad liar."

She sniffles again, wiping at her eyes. "I'm, um, I'm sorry, Will. I really messed up the night."

His face is sympathetic, and he raises his hand to cup her cheek, stroke her red hair a little. She normally wouldn't allow this, but it's Will, and he's there, and she's sick, and she just wants someone to take care of her.

"It was my fault, too. The table . . . the car wouldn't start. And you couldn't help not feeling well. And it's okay – you weren't ready for a restaurant yet."

She suddenly feels stupid, and straightens her back. "Look, Will, I know you must think that I'm some kind of crazy person, but it's just . . . I handle it, okay? I can eat in restaurants and I can handle when some student sneezes on me, but you have to let me handle it in my own way.

"You stare at me all the time, like I'm going to break, and I'm . . . I'm not going to break, Will. I just need to, um, rearrange the way I handle messes. And germs."

Then she sneezes again.

He gets out of the car, walks around to her side, and opens her door for her. "You're not feeling well, Em. Why don't you let me help you get settled?"

It's on the tip of her tongue to say no. It's not that this isn't everything she's dreamed of, but it is strange, and she's not well, and she's already panicky enough over Rachel Berry passing over whatever cold she had and ruining Emma's life for the next few days.

But she doesn't say no.

"Okay."

//~//

She takes off her skirt and blouse in the bathroom upstairs and rearranges a few of the candles on the back of the toilet as she puts on her pajamas. They're soft flannel, her favourite pair. Printed with blue hearts, they probably look ridiculous, but she doesn't care, and she suddenly doesn't care if Will sees her.

He's sitting on her couch, fiddling with his cell phone, and his face breaks into a grin when she walks out. "What happened to the pink skirt?"

She just starts to laugh. "You liked it?" It's the closest Emma gets to flirting, but Will runs with it anyway.

"It was definitely one of my favourite things that you wear." He pats the couch cushion beside him and she comes to sit down, rubbing a Kleenex across her nose. At her fourth sneeze of the night, he purses his lips and puts a hand on her forehead.

She flinches back, and he's careful to remove his hand, but he lays it, more slowly this time, on her cheek, and this time, she lets him.

"You're feverish, Em."

At that, she shakes her head. "No, I always run a little warm. 98.7 is normal temperature for me."

He rolls his eyes. "You take your temperature when you're not sick?"

"Well, how else am I going to know if I have a fever?" She doesn't understand his question, and he laughs.

"Where's your thermometer?"

She gets it for him, wiping it down with a wipe before giving it to him. He slips it into her mouth, letting his fingers rest quietly on her chin for a moment, stroking the contour of her jaw line.

It beeps, and his face twists in amusement. "It says 101.9."

"I'm not sick, Will." Her face is so set, and her eyes so wide and earnest, that his smile annoys her. "It's a chill or something. I can't be sick."

Her face suddenly crumples, and he takes her into his arms. "Why can't you be sick?"

She presses her face into his sweater, smelling his fresh-scented cologne, something after-shaveish, and his own scent, and he holds her for a moment, his hands on her back, rubbing soothing circles, trying to calm her tense muscles.

"I hate being sick," she sniffles, and he nods.

"I'm not sure anyone really likes it."

"No, um, Will, I can't. I just can't be sick. I don't . . . I just don't know if I can handle it," she whispers, and he suddenly understands.

"It's scary?"

She doesn't answer, but he knows that's the reason, and he holds her a little more tightly. "I'm sorry, Emma."

"Oh, Will. Don't say that." She sits up, wipes her face with her Kleenex, and tries to smile. "It's my fault for allowing Rachel to come in when she was clearly not feeling well this afternoon."

"Her voice did crack in Glee today . . ." They both start to laugh. "As if you could have stopped her, Em."

In response, she settles against him, allowing her body to relax in increments, finally ending up with her back against his chest, his arms around her stomach, her head against his shoulder.

This is so big for her. She's never trusted anyone this much in her entire life.

Maybe it's the germs messing with her head, but she's loving this.

Listening to his heartbeats, she closes her eyes for a moment, and pretends that he's hers completely. And for the first time, Emma stops thinking about how she appears to other people, and relaxes totally in Will Schuester's arms.

//~//

Will used to do this for Terri when she was sick. He'd cradle her in his arms, rubbing her stomach, kissing the side of her cheek, the top of her head, the sweet-smelling crook of her neck. And he wants to do this for Emma, but it's enough that she's even trusting him enough to hold her.

Instead, he admires the light on her hair, the way her stomach moves when she breathes, her closed eyes, and when he's sure that she can't see him, he brushes his lips over the top of her head.

She's not going to be an easy person to love. He already knows he's going to end up annoyed a good amount of the time. She's not going to be easy to feed, to touch, to take care of or to be with. If tonight was any indication, they'll never get to have a good night out.

But he's willing to try.

She sighs, curls more into his arms, and smiles against his chest. "Thank you."

It's okay. He doesn't put a lot of stock in first dates, anyway.


End file.
